


A Visitor on the Closed Ward

by stereolightning (phalaenopsis)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:10:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalaenopsis/pseuds/stereolightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lupin visits two of the last remaining Order members from time to time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Visitor on the Closed Ward

"Happy Christmas, Alice."

She looks lost, as always. He presses on, as always.

"Neville is a joy. He did beautifully against a boggart in our first lesson together. His boggart - well, I don't know if you knew Severus Snape, he must have been about twelve the last time you saw him - suffice it to say, he's teaching now as well, and he's less than pleasant. But Neville put him in Augusta's clothes, which was very entertaining."

Lupin stirs a lump of sugar into her tea and gently closes her fingers around the cup. She looks so much older now than when they were in the Order together. He supposes he must look older, too. And whereas she has no memories, he has nothing but memories. He would give his to her, if he could. 

He remembers her, before. Alice Longbottom, the witch who used to duel three Death Eaters at once. The witch who would get wild-eyed after a few drinks and go on long, expletive-ridden tirades about muggleborn rights and centaur land disputes. The witch who always gave him plants for Christmas, even though he didn't have a real home to keep them in, so she would put them in her own garden for him, 'for safekeeping,' and then he'd visit her, and she would say, 'Look, Remus, how well your columbine is doing.'

And Frank, he of the photographic memory, born to be an Auror, he who never, ever forgot a face - how ironic that he remembers no faces at all now. Long ago, at particularly dull Order meetings, Frank would make dry, witty asides under his breath, and if you were lucky enough to be within earshot, you'd spit out your butterbeer from laughing. And sometimes, on holidays and birthdays, he would play the piano and sing with a clear, pitch-perfect tenor.

But the Order days are long gone, and Remus cannot afford to linger in recollection with old colleagues this year. The moon is waxing. And there are papers to grade. He rearranges their pillows and stands.

"Until next year, old friends," he says, drawing the curtains and leaving the closed ward behind.


End file.
